


A Place To Call Home

by endlessnepenthe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, Dean Winchester Has a Wing Kink, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Nesting, Soft Dean Winchester, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Wingfic, domestic bunker fluff, poor lost bbys just immediately nesting once they finally have a place to call home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 06:39:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20616641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe
Summary: When Sam asks if Dean made the burgers himself, Dean happily replies that they finally have a kitchen. And that he’s nesting.Little did Dean know, he’s not the only one.





	A Place To Call Home

**Author's Note:**

> I just really love the idea of Cas with absolutely hUGE wings that are taller than he is, and who doesn't love the "Dean's first time seeing Cas' wings and he immediately loves them" trope?

“You made these?” Sam points down at the plate Dean had just set in front of him.

“We have a real kitchen now.”

“I know. I just didn’t think you knew what a kitchen was.”

“I’m _ nesting, _ oka— Eat!” Dean waves a pointed hand at Sam’s plate.

Sam shrugs, picking up the burger to take a bite.

Dean watches as Sam chews. “Huh? Yeah?”

Sam had always been ridiculously picky with his food as a child, and although now he’s much less discriminating with his food choices — _his damn rabbit food, _ however, is still something Dean would never understand — Dean still finds himself looking to Sam for his approval when it comes to food. Old habits die hard, he supposes.

Chewing more energetically, Sam glances at Dean, expression shocked and appreciative. _ “Wow.” _

“You’re welcome,” Dean declares with a smirk and a proud nod, lifting his own burger to his mouth.

His eyebrows fly up as Sam’s enthusiastic second bite devours nearly a third of his burger. _ That’s… actually impressive, _ Dean can’t help but think, his cheeks puffed out from his own giant first bite. See, Sam is always the one that eats all prim and dainty — _like a girl, _ Dean sometimes jokes — with neat little bites that he can chew without any sort of difficulty, frowning a tired halfhearted reprimand in Dean’s chipmunk cheeked food-nearly-spilling-out-of-his-mouth direction. But today, for the first time ever, he’s eating with as much gusto — maybe even more — as Dean always has whenever any sort of greasy fried junk food is placed in front of him.

And Dean can’t stop the pride and delight swelling inside him, to know that his — _his! Dean Winchester! —_ cooking has been the one to elicit a never before seen response from Sam. Dean’s smiling around a bite of some _ damn good cooking, _ watching with something near wonder, as Sam inhales half the remains of his burger with his next attack and closes his eyes to hum a happy sound of utter bliss.

“Greasy stuff not so bad after all, huh,” Dean laughs, his words nearly incoherent with all the food in his mouth.

Sam lifts the last bite of his burger in something near a salute. “This is—” He shifts some of the food into his cheeks to talk without spewing pieces of partially chewed burger. “This is _ awesome.” _

“That rabbit food’s got nothin’ on this.” Dean exaggerates a full body shudder. “Salads,” he utters like a curse, attempting to shove the rest of his burger into his mouth at once. It doesn’t fit, forcing Dean to break off the little piece that he couldn’t stuff into his mouth.

“It wouldn’t kill you to eat something green once in a while, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head with a scowl. “I ain’t no herbivore, Sammy. Oh— Before I forget.” He narrows his eyes at Sam, the threatening effect dampened by his bulging cheeks. “Have you been taking my clothes?”

_ Are you kidding me, _ Sam’s disbelieving grimace reads. “No— Why would I do that?” Looking mildly disappointed to be finished, he polishes off the last piece of his burger. “You should probably be asking Cas that.”

“Why,” Dean demands, tone suspicious and accusing.

“Because it’s not me— Who else can it be?”

_ Huh. He does have a point. _

So Dean shoves back his chair — chewing quickly through the last bit of his burger — and makes a beeline for the one bedroom that Castiel seemed to have a tiny preference for. Besides Dean’s, of course. For some reason, out of all the other rooms in the bunker, Dean’s is always Castiel’s favourite.

“Dean, I think you should knock—” Sam’s voice calls from the end of the hall closer to the library, just as Dean turns the knob in one swift move and bursts into the room.

“Cas, have you been stealing my—” Dean stumbles to a halt, one hand on the doorknob as he narrows his eyes with a frown.

Light from the hallway spills in from behind Dean, illuminating a huge mass of darkness looming in the center of the room. Right where Dean knew is a bed, the headboard pushed up against one wall. It’s moving gently, rising and falling subtly in the way of something breathing. Somehow, it’s both glossy and matte at the same time, what should be a strange clashing mix of gleam and dull managing to be pleasing to the eye. Black — if Dean could even classify it as such — and smooth, the white fluorescent lighting seems to be simultaneously reflected off and swallowed by its surface, a beautiful sheen of rainbow colours like an oil spill scattered about.

Hypnotized, Dean stands in the doorway with his mouth open, eyes wide with awe. Then his gaze wanders to the floor, where the dark mass is pooled like some sort of dense midnight liquid, the tips bent and fanned out in thick soft rounded shapes. It takes a whole minute for Dean’s scattered brain cells to process that those are _ feathers _ pressed awkwardly against the cold concrete of the bunker.

Feathers. Meaning the dome like canopy engulfing the bed is a wing. An enormous, absolutely _ gorgeous, _ not of this world, _ wing. _

Dean’s about to reach for his beloved handgun at his waist — how’d a giant monster bird get into the bunker, anyway? — when his eyes catch on something partially hidden behind long splayed feathers. It’s red, looks like a sleeve. A very familiar red checkered sleeve, now that Dean sees it. And he would know, because it’s a sleeve from one of _ his _ flannels, the one he had spent all of five minutes searching for yesterday evening before huffing a defeated sigh and throwing something else on.

Which means… Maybe an angel is finally showing his feathers.

“Cas?”

The shape on the bed twitches, hesitates for a beat. Then it moves and Dean is absolutely _ floored, _ because what he had thought would be two large wings entwined together is actually only a singular enormous one. It lifts slowly, and even then Dean feels a rush of displaced air caress his face.

Castiel’s curled on his side facing the door, fully clothed in his trench coat and suit, legs bent and drawn up to his chest in the center of the bed. His head of wild dark hair rests comfortably on a fluffy white pillow. One wing is spilling out of sight behind the bed from between Castiel’s shoulder blades, the other carefully bent over himself. There is a pile of significant size next to Castiel, each onyx feather the length of a forearm, resting on top of what looks to be nearly the whole wardrobe of Dean’s softest tops collected on the mattress.

And then Castiel’s sitting upright, his wings spreading slightly to brush against the walls and ceiling of the room in an instinctual move to increase balance. Dean breathes a soft gasp of wonder as they snap shut behind Castiel’s back with a sharp rustle of feathers and a gust of wind, folding impossibly neat for their size. In the time it takes Dean to blink, Castiel’s wings are gone.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel flicks a brief glance at the lamp and it blinks on, bathing the room in a fiery orange glow. He swings his legs off the bed, sitting straight and excessively proper with his hands resting on his thighs, gently dipping his head in a soft nod.

Dean steps into the room, just enough for him to fumble the door shut behind his back, his eyes stubbornly refusing to leave Castiel’s. “Cas. Uh—” His voice breaks — swallowing nervously, he clears his throat. “Were those…” _ Wings? Your wings? _

“Yes,” Castiel patiently replies, placing a hand on the pile of feathers. They disappear from underneath his palm, his hand lowering to rest on worn plaid flannel.

The confirmation, despite it being exactly what Dean had expected to hear, still steals all the breath from his lungs and leaves his head spinning. He glances at Castiel’s hand — where the feathers used to be — and despite his initial irritation, Dean can’t stop the small smile that tugs at his lips. “Are those…”

“...Yes.” Blue eyes, glittering bright and vivid in contrast to the warm light in the room, dart away from Dean’s in a startlingly human response.

_ He’s embarrassed, _ Dean’s mind coos in pure devastating delight. Casually sauntering closer, he grabs the red sleeve he’d caught sight of earlier between dark feathers, flipping it up — to join the rest of the shirt — from where it had been dangling over the edge of the bed and onto the floor.

“Y’know,” Dean hums, “it’s pretty hard to find a shirt to wear when you don’t actually know where any of them are.”

“My apologies,” Castiel murmurs quietly, ducking his head.

When Dean looks back at Castiel, he’s staring down at his hands with the exact expression of a kicked puppy on his face.

“Hey, s’alright.” Crouching down to make eye contact, Dean touches a hand to Castiel’s forearm, firm and reassuring. “Just wondering why you’re collecting my clothes here, is all.”

Castiel continues attempting to discover the secrets of the world on the skin of his hands.

Dean’s confidence wavers. Just a little. Enough to leave him wondering if he should be pressing for answers or leaving it alone. “Is it… an angel thing?”

“No— Yes. We— When an angel deems a place secure enough to be a home, there is an… urge — so to speak — to gather anything associated with warmth and safety. Create a space.”

“Hm.” Dean mulls over the new information. “So you’re saying, my—” The rest of the sentence dies in his throat. _ Warmth and safety. _ His clothes — and by close relation, _ Dean himself —_ make Castiel feel _ safe? _ “Wait— Are you _ nesting? _ Like a duck?”

Eyes narrowing as he frowns, Castiel’s expression is offended irritation. “Dean, I do not understand why you insist on associating me with birds. However your logic is sound, to a certain degree.”

Castiel softens when he sees the open amazement in Dean’s eyes. Straightening up with a quiet huff, Dean moves to sit and abruptly stalls in place.

“...May I?”

Castiel doesn’t immediately reply; eyes round and unblinking, he gapes up at Dean. A soft flush rises on Dean’s cheeks from the attention and he rubs at the back of the neck, determinedly looking anywhere but at Castiel.

“Of course.”

Brightening, Dean carefully perches next to Castiel on the bed. They sat together for a long minute that ticks by agonizingly slow for Dean; a part of him itches to fill the silence with something, anything.

“Uh, so…” Dean coughs an unsure, awkward sound. “Earlier, those feathers— You were groom— preening?”

“Yes,” Castiel murmurs, the word coloured by a pleasantly surprised and impressed tone. “I suppose I was.”

“So are you—” Dean lowers his voice and absently mutters the next three words to himself. “What’s the word…” Then he lights up. “—Molting?”

Castiel raises an eyebrow.

“I, um— I know a few things about birds — watched some videos…”

A slow fond smile curves Castiel’s lips. “No, I am not molting. It has been quite some time since I have last cared for my wings, they have been neglected— maintenance, if you will.”

“Ah. You… can reach everything? I mean, they’re _ enormous _ and…”

“Are you offering, Dean?”

Dean can’t tell if Castiel is joking or not — the words are perfectly even and neutral. “So what if I am,” he blurts out before he loses his courage, fiddling with his fingers. “Hypothetically.”

Castiel’s silent for several heartbeats. “I would… not be against the idea. Hypothetically, of course.”

“If I...” Dean shakes his head, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip. “Never mind.”

“Dean. What is it?” Castiel’s voice is steady and patient, laced with a hint of curiosity.

“If— What if I said,” Dean mumbled, “that I wanted to see them again?” His voice drops even lower and quieter, timid and tentative. “Your wings.”

“Why?”

With a single word, Dean’s startled back into drowning in the depths of deep blue ocean eyes. Castiel’s head is tilted to one side, the perfect replication of a bewildered puppy.

“‘Cause they’re so _ awesome _ and— And I would love to see them again…? I’ll keep my hands to myself, if that’s what it takes.”

Something near amusement curls at Castiel’s mouth with Dean’s fast, nearly tripping over each other, eager words. Wiggling backward until the backs of his legs are pressed to the bed frame, Castiel rolls his shoulders back, a jerky aborted movement.

Dean twists around when the soft fluttering noise he’d grown accustomed to associating with angels appearing and disappearing sounds just behind him. Castiel’s wings are loosely open, bent partially around his body like a crescent moon, but not enough to touch Dean. They twitch and shift closer to Castiel under Dean’s silent scrutiny, adorably shy.

Watching with single minded focus as Castiel’s wings move slightly with his every breath, Dean absently drags his tongue across his bottom lip. He doesn’t notice the way attentive blue eyes track his every move, or the way one wing flinches minutely before Castiel makes a deliberate effort to end the movement. It isn’t until Dean feels something softer and stronger and smoother than silk being dragged against the pads of his thumb and forefinger, does he finally snap out of whatever trance he’d been ensnared in.

Glancing down, Dean finds that he’d been unconsciously stroking one long dark flight feather, trapped between his fingers; with a sharp gasp, he yanked his hand back like he’d been burned and raises both of them, palms out, in the air.

“Sorry!”

But Castiel doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he’s busy combing his own fingers through the secondary coverts of the other wing in smooth fearless motions, deftly plucking out loose feathers and setting them aside in a growing pile. He pauses with his fingers sunk deep into black feathers, lifting his head with a questioning frown.

“Dean, what are you doing?”

“Uh.” Dean blinks, slowly lowering his hands. He’s caught between asking for permission and letting it pass.

Castiel pins Dean with his piercing indiscernible gaze for a few more seconds, then continues removing any useless feathers from his wings. Relieved but mildly guilty, Dean twists his fingers together and resolves to keep his hands to himself, watching Castiel’s with something alarmingly near envy.

Dean manages for all of a minute, mesmerized by the way Castiel’s strong fingers work steadily throughout the wing. Then the other — closer to Dean — brushes against his forearm, and he nearly has to sit on his hands to prevent them from reaching out. Nearly.

Attempting to be discreet, Dean inches his arm further away from Castiel. He hopes that he’d moved far enough for the wing to be unable to reach him by accident, therefore removing any temptations and consequently, accidents. Despite Dean’s earnest efforts, the wing finds him again; but this time, it extends to cross the distance and bump against his shoulder.

Either Castiel’s wing is subconsciously searching for more room to stretch out, or it’s just drawn to Dean for some reason. Dean doesn’t know which is more devastating.

And Dean’s weak — he knows he should probably stop himself but he’s a panicked bystander, watching as his own hand lifts and falls just enough to feel the absolutely delicious drag of magnificent plumage against his knuckles. There’s no way it escapes Castiel’s attention this time. The first time had already been dubious, but a _ second _ time?

Gentle and insistent, Castiel’s wing nudges at Dean’s arm, exactly the same way a cat or dog would butt their heads against someone until they receive a satisfactory petting. So Dean obeys, albeit hesitantly, skimming his fingertips along the edge of one soft feather. The wing pushes forward, until Dean’s whole hand is touching feathers and he can no longer deny that Castiel is giving permission Dean hasn’t mustered up the courage to ask.

Dean combs his fingers down the wing in a careful imitation of what Castiel is doing, and although he knew it would happen — hell, he was waiting for it to happen — his heart still skips an anxious beat when a feather separates from the rest. He stops to stare blankly at it.

“It’s alright. Wings shed feathers, just as humans do with hair.”

“I— I know that!”

The feather is set aside next to Dean, the beginning of a pile of his own. And even with the way Dean mentally reassures himself, his heart continues to trip every time he encounters a new feather for the pile.

He’s making his way across the bottom of the wing toward Castiel when a hand, warm and sure, closes around his wrist. Dean glances up with a question on the tip of his tongue, his eyes drawn to Castiel’s other wing. Feathers gleam brightly, straight and uniform; it reminds Dean of the Impala’s smooth polished exterior.

Castiel gently guides Dean’s hand up to the top of his wing with a faint reassuring smile. Dean’s fingers instinctively curl loosely around the delicate bone; he finds himself more disappointed than he should be when Castiel’s hand immediately retreats.

Slowly but steadily, Dean makes his way across Castiel’s wing. He’s mildly alarmed by just how many feathers come off in his hand — how does Castiel lose this many and still have any feathers attached to his wings? Do birds shed like this, too? No wonder Dean sees bird feathers all over the place whenever he goes out.

“Dean.”

“Hm,” Dean hums absently, enthralled by the sensation of feathers brushing at the thin skin between his fingers.

“Would you help me with the areas behind my back?”

“Yeah, of course; I said I would, didn’t I?”

And if Dean ends up sleeping soundly until nearly noon the next day — pressed up against Castiel in the nest of his own clothes on the narrow bed, one arm draped over Castiel’s waist — that’s for them to know and Sam to never find out.


End file.
